


The Highwayman

by eggsinskillet



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: College AU, F/F, Harrow is still into bones though, Idiots in Love, Theater/Drama AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28298757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsinskillet/pseuds/eggsinskillet
Summary: “I’m going to audition for the Highwayman,” she said triumphantly. “And then you’ll have to kiss these sexy, sexy lips on stage.”“Oh,barf,” Harrow’s face was a grotesque mockery of annoyance. And then: “Yeah, right.”“Yeah,right,” Gideon huffed, and to make a show of it, she penned her name into the audition list. Harrow’s eyes flashed as she penned her own under Bess.“You are not going to threaten me out of my role, Griddle. If it happens, it happens. I could care less about who I’m kissing up there, even if it’s you.”“Yeah, well, don’t threaten me with a good time, Nonagesimus.”An unlikely pair are cast in their college's production ofThe Highwayman. Harrowhark Nonagesimus and Gideon Nav stopped speaking to each other in highschool - now they find themselves having to work together on the stage. Harrow is still obsessed with bones because of course she is.
Relationships: Camilla Hect & Gideon Nav, Gideon Nav & Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Harrowhark Nonagesimus & Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	The Highwayman

College _theater -_ with the _a_ pronounced extra fancy like the- _a-_ ter - was nothing like high school drama class. For one, they actually had enough money to use something better than cardboard for the set. For the second, some of the acting (actually, most of it!) was done by people with talent, and not just kids who took the elective to get out of P.E.

Gideon, of course, loved to run and prided herself on being able to carry all of her groceries in one hand, but she had _not_ loved P.E. So she took drama. She found out that being the strongest of all the noodle-armed drama kids was an amazing boon for a stagehand, and best of all, she actually enjoyed painting sets and making them look pretty. And she was really very good at it, thank you very much. So when the option for _theater_ arose at her local community college, she bracketed that bitch into her schedule lightning fast, and spent the summer excited for the fall.

But, as she was learning now, among the rows of _actually_ tailored costume dresses, the wooden _\- wooden!_ \- stage sets, and the high quality rows of lights donning the rafters, college the- _a-_ ter was a whole different beast. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up a split second before she heard:

“You look like a fish out of water, Griddle.” Harrowhark, wraithlike as always, had materialized from the shadows like a gothic little cryptid. Gideon scowled.

“Harrowhark? Oh, _come on!_ Weren’t you going to, like, Harvard or something?” Harrow’s eyes burned into Gideon’s like two inky chasms, lightless and utterly annoyed.

“I’m not _stupid,_ Griddle.” she drawled, turning her eyes over the lights in the rafters. “I don’t want to drown in debt, so I’m attending Canaan for two years before I transfer. _Not_ to Harvard. To State.”

“Well look at you, little miss responsible,” Gideon made sure her eyeroll was palpable.

“I am nothing if not responsible.”

“Responsible for _this di-”_ Harrowhark was gone. Gideon cursed to herself for letting her out of her eyesight for more than a second, lest she find a shank in the back. The worst part was she had been right - Gideon was feeling significantly more than a little nervous about what she’d signed up for. She was strong - that was no question - and she could actually paint well, if she did say so herself, but these people were professional. The kind of professional where you just knew everyone else had been taking lessons since they were six with a private tutor, and then had gone to Idyllwild for the summer. Gideon’s aforementioned resume was “lifts things” and “can hold a paintbrush convincingly”. And now she had _Harrowhark_ deal with, dastardly Harrowhark, mistress of her nightmares, gloomy, gothic perpetual thorn-in-her-side.

For their elementary years Gideon and Harrow had clawed each other to pieces - mostly figuratively, sometimes literally. Most parents hoped their child got along with the neighbor kid. Gideon’s parents, her oft-gone foster father and married-to-her-work foster mother, had not hoped for anything. But she was certain they’d still been let down when Gideon would come home after an especially bad spat with fingernail crescents running up and down her arms, blood dripping from a cut on her chin. Like a dog she followed Harrow day in and day out, tried to play with her at school - to the detriment of the other kids, who generally gave Harrow, and by extent Gideon, a several-foot berth in all directions. But Harrow had been the only girl who lived on Gideon’s street, out in the country on a wide dirt road. Sometimes, she would even _enjoy_ the fight, twisting the smaller girl’s arm til she collapsed in the dirt, patting at the ground, shouting _stop!_ And then Gideon would let go, even knowing Harrow was about to deal it back worse. Those days passed for fun.

And then they got lankier, older. Gideon had tired of Harrow’s incessant, never-ending hatred for her. She tried to be friends a few times, but Harrow had crushed the attempts. She invited Harrow to dinner at her house, although it would have been a microwave dinner in front of the TV alone. She’d never even _seen_ Harrow’s house, the manor with the black gate situated somewhere deep, deep in the trees. On a dark day, below the eaves as the gilded-gold leaves dripped from the branches of half-naked trees, Gideon asked Harrowhark,

“Can we please just be _real_ friends?” She felt stupid in her vulnerability, stupider, even, when Harrow’s scalding look rounded on her.

“We’re not even _fake_ friends,” Harrowhark had said, a black-painted nail needling her chest. “I don’t even like being around you.”

“Oh, _like hell you don’t like being around me!_ ” Gideon had screeched, indignant in her hatred. “I follow you like a whipped dog, and you follow me right back! All we have is each other! And I could have friends, but I chose _you_ , you incessant _asshole_ ! No one talks to me because I’m friends with _you!”_ Harrowhark’s face had been angry, seething, but only for a moment. The mask closed up.

“We are not friends,” Harrowhark had said drily. “And if you would be happier alone, then so be it. You are alone.”

Gideon had not spoken more than a few terse words to Harrow since then. They had been fourteen. But like a wound that could not close, when Gideon had joined the tenth grade drama class a couple years later, Harrow waltzed in on the first day too. They did not acknowledge each other, but Gideon cast looks of seething hatred on the back of Harrow’s head any chance she got, and she was _sure_ after school Harrow was probably in the woods making anti-Gideon bone-curse circles or whatever. Eventually, Harrow on lights, Gideon on set, they found it easy to pretend the other did not exist; and Gideon looked forward to Canaan Community College, where Harrowharks nasty little claws would finally ungrip the back of her neck. And yet here she was.

Gideon wandered past the stage, the sets, the costumes - she did not even _look_ in the direction of lights - and into the little cramped practice room below the stage. The main stage had an atrium and probably seated a decent couple hundred; here, below deck, the walls were cramped and plastered with photos of performances past, framed by old mouldering props lovingly mounted to the walls. Gideon took her place among the rows of folding chairs, which had been arranged rather haphazardly in a ring. She leaned back until she felt a pair of bony knees press into her shoulder blades.

“Ouch,” Gideon said.

“Sorry about that,” The boy behind Gideon was adjusting his glasses, square hipster frames. He ran the cloth of his shirt over the side and adjusted his knees. “It comes with the territory of being tall.” Gideon looked at him for a couple of heartbeats; he extended his hand.

“Are you a freshman?- Woah, strong,” He said as Gideon clapped his hand in hers and shook it. His grip was pretty weak, all things considered. “I’m Palamedes, pleased to meet you.”

“Gideon,” Gideon said, affecting her best smile. The shorter, slightly tanner girl next to him also extended her hand, which Gideon took and noted that _this_ one actually had some muscle.

“Camilla,” The girl’s brown eyes bored into Gideon’s - she smiled a little pointed smile. “Do you work set?”

“Usually,” Gideon said. She nodded.

“I knew it, you’re pretty ripped. Me too. Guess we’ll see each other around. Palamedes is an _acteur_ ,” She said, with mock accentation. “So he gets to do all the fun stuff.”

“Painting is fun,” Gideon said. “Pushing the props specifically so they fall on actors, _tragically_ cutting their acting career short is fun! For us.”

“I resent that,” Palamedes butted in, but the three of them were laughing. “It all comes together, and there would be no play without its props and the people who make them.”

“So sweet,” Camilla laughed. “Careful, if you’re too nice they won’t cast you as the grinch, even though you’re tall enough.”

“I’ll tell your mom you said that,” Palamedes snorted.

“I’ll tell your mom you skipped Christmas last year to do AP prep tests.” He put up his hands and slumped back into his seat. 

The room filled in slowly, and some of the people she would be spending her days with certainly appeared to be characters. These people were like _super, mega_ versions of the theater kids in her highschool, who were a little weird but tolerable. She definitely was in no place to judge - she was wearing Hot Topic jeans, and deigned to shop nowhere else, firmly placing her in the category of ‘emo several years after it was cool’, but hey. That was the little bit of Harrow that rubbed off on her. Eventually, approximately fifteen minutes after class was supposed to have started, a tight-lipped man walked in the room, and a hush fell over the class.

“Good day to actors new and old!” He said, stippling his fingers together. Gideon noted that the gray hairs poking through the frankly unrealistic sandy brown dye job. “My name is professor Augustine. If you’ve seen the course description, you probably know we pair freshmen and several of our more venerated actors for our yearly show of _The Highwayman_ to give you a taste for professional acting roles. I’m sure most of you have acted before, _on stage?_ Raise your hand if you haven’t.” Gideon _sloooowly_ raised her hand. In mute terror, she realized the only other person with their hand up was Harrow, a black and lilywhite blotch leaning against the wall, apparently too good for a chair. Augustine’s eyes scanned the room and then he said:

“Very good! Well, if you don’t have experience with it, you will, because all students are required to try out an acting role. Don’t fret, you’ll all get your moment in the limelight.” Gideon’s fight-or-flight instinct was revving up. She considered bolting out of the room, down the hall, into the administrator's office, and begging for a schedule change. 

It wasn’t that she had never been on the stage - she had, several times, although she could probably count the number of lines she’d spoken on both hands - it was that she felt ruefully, painfully, frustratingly out of place among these seasoned actors and life-dedicators. Theater was her hobby, not her passion. She went home and didn’t really think about it. She didn’t know if she was ready to go back to her dorm and stand in front of the mirror saying, “Masquerade, paper faces on parade,” 800 times until the inflection was _just_ right - much less sing it. Her gaze slid to Harrow. She took a very small amount of pleasure in the realization that Harrow looked like she was about five seconds away from emptying the paltry contents of her stomach all over the floor.

They were given scripts; Gideon poured over hers, and realized, in actuality, the Highwayman was a _pretty cool_ poem. Canaan’s Highwayman wore a deerskull mask for the play; the mask was tipped to reveal the Highwayman’s face only in the final act of the play, when Bess would kiss the Highwayman. The twist was that Bess survived - killed her captors, and tried to make it to the Highwayman, but he had already been downed by the soldiers. It was sappy, romantic, and _dark_ \- all things Gideon’s emo little heart saw a macabre beauty in. A speaking role didn’t seem _so_ bad now, she thought, her nerve endings prickling with the idea of being onstage in front of several hundred people. She would, she thought, apply for the role of a soldier - an easy one, no speaking required.

“Hmm,” Harrow’s voice carried Gideon from her reverie. 

“Why are you talking to me?” Gideon said.

“Do I have anyone else to talk to?” And yeah, that was kind of sad, so Gideon responded:

“Which part are you gonna try for?” And was wholeheartedly surprised to hear Harrowhark say _Bess,_ one of the leads.

“You’re going to let someone like _that guy_ -” she jerked her head over to one of the people she’d pegged as a _real_ weirdo, a youngish man with a braid, white from head to toe, clothes, hair, everything “-Kiss you in front of like, a million people?” When Harrow glared up at her, Gideon _swore_ she was blushing, but it was hard to tell behind the millions of layers of too-light foundation she always wore.

“Maybe I find it a little romantic to kiss the ornate skull of a deer,” She said after a moment. “And maybe I find the death of the Highwayman tragically beautiful. ‘ _And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.’_ ”

“Well now that we’re apparently talking again, I’m telling you that’s fucking weird. And also, that’s what she said.”

“Mm.” She looked Gideon up and down in a way that made her feel like crossing her arms, covering the faded My Chemical Romance logo on her chest. Penetrating. “And what will you be, some no-name soldier? Perfect for someone like you.” Gideon scoffed because she was _right,_ but determined not to let her _know_ that, Gideon sneered.

“I’m going to audition for the Highwayman,” she said triumphantly. “And then you’ll have to kiss these sexy, sexy lips on stage.”

“Oh, _barf,_ ” Harrow’s face was the grotesque mockery of annoyance. And then: “Yeah, right.”

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Gideon huffed, and to make a show of it, she penned her name into the audition list. Harrow’s eyes flashed as she penned her own under Bess.

“You are _not_ going to threaten me out of my role, Griddle. If it happens, it happens. I could care less about who I’m kissing up there, even if it’s you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t threaten me with a good time, Nonagesimus.”

The following week, behind the curtain on the stage in front of the empty auditorium, Gideon rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, waiting to hear her name. The other auditions for the Highwayman were all-white braid guy, Silas - _score_ , totally called that one - and the woman, presumably named Ianthe Tridentarius judging by the list of names posted below the bulletin. They were both, Gideon noted, similarly single-shaded individuals, with the type of vampiric aura only someone who had never been in the sun for more than an hour or two could possess. They should probably have split roles so they could kiss each other. Harrowhark loitered in the corner, and a pretty, older girl with a slight build leaned doubly over the back of a folding chair.

“Gideon Nav, Silas Octakiseron, Ianthe Tridentarius, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, and Dulcinea Septimus.” Augustine’s voice called out; they filed onto the stage, and Gideon cocked an eyebrow to see a tight-lipped, angry-looking woman hunched in the seat next to him, papers shuffled about her lap. Her hair was the kind of hair that _could_ have been natural, but was probably dyed - a strawberry blond so near to pink it could have just been called strawberry. It was pulled up with pins in a messy bun about her head, and little wisps poked out to fall in her face. She blew one from in front of her eyes.

“Alright, kids,” - Gideon noted that none of them were, in fact, kids, and she didn’t look _that_ old - “You know Augustine. I’m Mercymorn, I do some of the playwriting, and I’m also head of the music department.” Gideon wondered absentmindedly if Canaan’s music department had a funding war with their drama department like her highschool had. Probably not. Out of the corner of her eye she could tell Harrowhark was worrying her lips with her teeth, something she’d apparently never grown out of. It filled Gideon with an unwanted flash of sympathy for her - she must be nervous. The woman next to her - Dulcinea - swayed a bit as she stood, but looked confident as all get-out, and Gideon noted she _was_ quite beautiful, all angles and a lovely paleish brown tint to her hair. Gideon found herself idly hoping Dulcinea was her Bess, though Harrow having to publicly plant one on her would be the sweet sort of poetic revenge one only comes across once or twice in their lifetime.

Augustine leaned towards the stage, passing small slips of paper to all of them. Gideon glanced down and saw several of the Highwayman’s spoken lines.

“A few moments to memorize, and then you will be called one by one for your performances. Augustine clapped. Mercymorn rolled her eyes. They filed backstage.

“You know they _do it_ , right?” Ianthe said to no one in particular, jerking a thumb back once they were behind the curtain. _Gross_ , though also somewhat hilarious.

“As if the pleasantries of the _Tridentarii_ could not get _more_ profane,” Silas muttered, and she guffawed and slapped him on the back. 

“Learn your lines, bible thumper, and you might beat me out for Highwayman,” Ianthe said. “Else I’ll leave you in the dust, and my Bessy might be Little Miss Public School over there.”

“Hey,” Gideon said, but she was surprised to see Ianthe was gesturing towards Harrowhark, which somehow made her a little _more_ pissed off. “Hey, don’t call her that?”

“I don’t need defending, _Griddle,_ ” Harrowhark said through her teeth. She opted for no response to Ianthe but a _very_ palpable glower, one of which Gideon was happy to not be on the receiving end of. Ianthe shrugged and flipped the paper open, cross-legged on one of the chairs. Dulcinea, Gideon noted, was eyeing them with a bemused sort of expression, and though her eyes slid back to glance over her script, she murmured for Gideon’s ears only:

“You’d make a lovely Highwayman, I think.” Gideon’s ears burned.

“Thanks,” she said, suddenly concentrating _very_ hard on her script. She glanced over the lines a few times, committed them to memory: when her gaze snapped back up, Harrow’s dark eyes were burrowing two holes in her, darker still in the dim light. Seething. No doubt at the thought of having to kiss Gideon. She triple-checked her lines.

Dulcinea was called first, then Harrow - they could all hear Dulcinea’s decadent performance, her lilts of anguish and her falls. They’d been assigned the scene where Bess finds the Highwayman, wounded by gunshot. Her voice was the picture of romantic sorrow. When Harrow was called she spoke so quietly, though Gideon strained to hear, it was as though she was not speaking at all.

“Gideon Nav,” Augustine’s voice piped from behind the curtain. Suddenly nervy, she strode on stage. Gideon bowed - fuck, are you supposed to bow when you audition for things? - and he said: “Begin.”

“ _Yet if they press me sharply,”_ Gideon began, wincing at the tremor in her voice. “ _\- And harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight! And I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”_ By the end of it she’d stood up straight; flourished with one arm, letting the emotion into her voice. And she was kind of having fun. Augustine’s eyebrow was cocked, he scribbled something on the paper before him. Mercymorn did the same. They waved her off, and as she walked backstage, she realized she was _thrilled._ And she maybe, kind of, really wanted this role. Maybe she _did_ enjoy performing. Ianthe strutted past her as she walked behind the curtain.

“Break a leg,” she said with a wink.

“Break both,” Gideon muttered.

Ianthe’s performance was, much to Gideon’s dismay, objectively better than hers, all heroic affectations and romantic splendor. She felt some of the wind billow from her sails. Silas’ was a tossup - nearly as quiet as Harrow’s, his too-deep voice reverberating in muttering tones over the theater walls.

They were dismissed shortly afterwards to bring in the next round of auditions. Outside the door, Gideon leaned against the cool tiled wall, letting the chilly autumn sun wash over her. She closed her eyes for just a moment; when she opened them, Harrow was looking pointedly up at her face, arms crossed.

“If you’ve come to tell me I suck and that I should die, save it,” Gideon said, suddenly checking desperately for _someone_ she knew to rescue her. “I know I’m not getting the role, so you have nothing to worry about anymore.”

“I actually came to tell you-” Harrow’s eyes averted as she bit at her lower lip and, oh fuck, was she nervous? “-That you did a good job. I think you embody the role well. I hope you get it.”

“Very funny,” Gideon said, narrowing her eyes. “Now tell me what you did with Harrowhark.”

“Oh, don’t be _obtuse,_ Nav,” Harrow said, already sauntering down the hall in that angry little walk of hers. “Don’t mistake compliments where compliments are due for any nonsense like affection.” Gideon opened her mouth to reply, but like always, Harrow had not waited for an answer.

“She’s right, you know,” a dulcet voice piped from beside her. Dulcinea looked at Gideon with eyes so blue they looked like they’d trapped an ocean. “You really did very well, especially considering you’ve never performed before.” Her easy smile sent a heat up Gideon’s neck.

“Thanks,” she said dumbly. “You were good.”

“I’ve been here longer than you,” Dulcinea shrugged, smiled a wistful little smile. “I’ve had practice. You have potential. For the record, what I said in there was true; I think you’d make a _lovely_ Highwayman. We could use one with some muscle.” Gideon flexed instinctively. She was but a woman after all, and when a pretty girl compliments your biceps, you oblige. 

“You think so?” Gideon felt her ear splitting grin. Embarrassing.

“To my Bess especially. I hope I see your name up there.” Dulcinea winked, letting her fingers trail along Gideons forearm like a ghost, before she turned down the hallway. _Damn,_ college was getting interesting, and she’d only been here a week. She hurried back to her dorm.

The following week, Gideon had strode into the little below-deck classroom to find her classmates plastered to the whiteboard. She swallowed, picking her way through the crowd. There on the board it said:

Bess

Dulcinea Septimus

In smaller letters, _Understudy: Harrowhark Nonagesimus._

She bit her cheek. She knew Harrow would be disappointed about that one. Then her eyes dragged over to:

The Highwayman

Ianthe Tridentarius

_Understudy: Gideon Nav_

Well fuck. So Ianthe Tridentarius, someone she had spoken only several words to but already had several negative opinions about, would be macking on Dulcinea Septimus shortly thereafter. Very interesting, and by interesting, she meant gross. It looked like Palamedes had scored the role of the narrator; among the garble of names she recognized Camilla Hect as one of the soldiers.

“Soldier #3,” Camilla’s voice said from behind Gideon’s shoulder, as though summoned. “I pray that my mom can come see my breakout role.”

“Sorry you didn’t get a big one,” Gideon said. Camilla shrugged.

“Didn’t want one. I’m looking forward to going back to set when all of this is done.”

“We can practice together, if you want! I’ll practice sitting in a chair backstage while I listen to Ianthe do all the cool stuff onstage.” Camilla laughed drily and mimed walking around and pretending to hold a gun. “Ah, perfect, you’re acing it already.”

“I actually _would_ like to practice if you have some time, Nav,” Palamedes’ hand tapped lightly on her shoulder. 

“Oh, I’m just the understudy,” Gideon said. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“And…?”

“You should practice with Ianthe, she’s actually learning the lines.”

“Oh, Gideon,” Palamedes looked at her, dumbfounded. “You have to learn all the lines too.”

“I’m not even going to go onstage!” Gideon yelped. “I have to learn it all just so I can sit and watch someone else perform all of my lines?!”

“Yes, that’s what the understudy does. How did you not know that- Nevermind.” Gideon felt her heart drop when he said it. As if he could read her mind, he said: “You should probably speak with Nonagesimus about it. There’s always a chance the lead won’t be able to perform, so you have to make sure you’ll perform the play properly.”

It turns out Gideon did not have to wait to speak to Nonagesimus about it, because the mummified corpse of Harrowhark Nonagesimus was right behind her. Or what looked like a mummified corpse, but was really Harrow in about forty layers of black jackets and scarves. The temperature must have dropped below 50F. It might as well have been zero to her.

“Griddle, we’re practicing.” Harrowhark said. “After class today, at your dorm.”

“Wait- You can’t just decide we’re going to hang out and then invite yourself to _my_ dorm.”

“I know you don’t have a roommate.” Harrowhark said. “It’s easier.”

“ _How_ in the fuck do you know that?” Harrowhark’s eyes darted to Camilla for a moment. Camilla winked. Gideon put her hand to her forehead, massaging the headache between her eyes. Conspirators, all of them. She should change her name to Caesar.

“We don’t even need to practice, we’re _understudies_. There’s pretty much no way we end up on that stage, Nonagesimus. One of us much less the both of us.”

“We’ll see about that.” Harrowhark said.

“Do _not_ murder Dulcinea Septimus,” Gideon said pointedly.

“We’ll see about that.” Harrowhark said again, an evil little smile tugging up the corner of her mouth. Totally creepy, as always. Like she hadn’t even changed - she was exactly the same, really. All hard edges, cruel jokes. Gideon was sure the size negative three skinny jeans she was sporting were still from Hot Topic. They might have even been the same ones from when they were teenagers, she hadn’t gotten taller.

“Alright, we’ll practice,” Gideon said, finally. “Only for a little bit. Before dinner. And you have to leave when I tell you to.”

“I find these terms agreeable,” Harrowhark said. “See you at five PM sharp.” Gideon stalked back to the corner where Camilla and Palamedes were sitting with Dulcinea, who was listening to Palamedes gesture exaggeratedly about _something_. Camilla’s face affected the mildly amused look it always had. She was the quiet kind of person who, once in a while, said something absolutely hilarious, and Gideon loved her for it. She’d started taking lunches with Camilla and Palamedes after the first week, and she was now completely and utterly endeared to those nerds. She plopped down in one of the chairs to catch Palamedes’ last seconds of long-winded forensic science student discourse.

“-it ended up not being _illegal_ so much as frowned upon, but that’s never stopped our professor. And anyway, I _did_ learn a lot.” Dulcinea laughed a high, tinkly little laugh, and Gideon’s eyes roved over her soft, trim face at the same time Palamedes’ did. Gideon almost felt her cheeks heat up under the gaze he directed at Dulcinea; it felt like a private thing, something no one should be doing in a public classroom. Dulcinea remained composed as always as his eyes hungrily scanned her face. Clearly, there was something she’d been missing.

“I really must go, Warden,” Dulcinea’s sweet voice was punctuated with a grotty, phlegmy cough. He nodded and said something so quietly to her Gideon could not hear it; she laughed as she stood, catching his arm for support. She looked away. When they were gone, Gideon whispered to Camilla, “Warden?”

“It’s the title given to winners of the Junior Forensic Scientists League,” She said, with a slight shrug. “It’s quite the title in the forensic science community. But what would I know, I’m just an aerospace engineer.”

“And they...know each other?”

“You could say that,” Camilla said. “She has a rare, degenerative illness. Sextus has been working with her for _years_ , trying to figure her case.”

“I thought he was a forensic scientist?”

“He dabbles. For her.” Gideon didn’t know what to say to that, but suddenly Dulcinea’s wandering fingers on her biceps the other day felt a little shameful, and when she thought of that quiet, whistly laugh, her heart twisted terribly.

The knock at the door startled Gideon, even though she knew who it was. She had spent the last hour cleaning things, moving things this way and that, making and remaking her bed. She did _not_ want to give Harrowhark Nonagesimus any fuel for her fire. She was still, somehow, slightly deflated when all Harrow said upon seeing her room was:

“ _Weird,”_ with a little sniff. “I seem to remember you having more decency when I was last in a room that belonged to you.” Gideon pulled the curtain over the slightly buxom posters of women plastered to the wall next to her desk.

“It’s lonely, with no roommate to keep me company, sexy or otherwise,” Gideon said, affecting mock-sorrow. “I never got the hot roommate fantasy I imagined, cut me some slack.”

“ _Gross,_ ” Harrow said, before making her way over to _Gideon’s_ bed and wrapping _Gideon’s_ quilt around her shoulders without asking.

“Hey,” Gideon said. “That’s my stuff, you’re making it all...Nonagesimus-y.”

“Then you’ll remember me tonight when you look at your pornographic posters and make the Godly choice.”

“That sounds _dangerously_ blasphemous, Nonagesimus.”

“Ugh,” She said, tossing the blanket off her shoulders. “Let’s just get this over with.” Gideon sidled up in the less-comfortable rolling chair she’d brought from her old desk back home, the one Harrow, if she were any manner of a polite guest, should be sitting in right now. They read over the papers in silence for a moment; Gideon felt herself flush as she realized the first spoken lines of the play. She knelt before Harrow, gently taking her hand in her own; when Harrow did not pull away, she cleared her throat and began:

“ _One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, for I’m after a prize to-night-_ Ugh, stop looking at me like that!” Harrow was looking at her- well, Harrow was looking at her the way Palamedes had looked at Dulcinea Septimus earlier, and that was not something she felt able to process at the moment.

“I’m not looking at you like _anything!”_ Harrow said, looking at her like everything. Her pupils were blown out, her throat looked tight. There was a strained note in her voice. It was all so... _romantic?_ Gideon’s inner psyche offered, but she quashed it with “ _weird”._

“Please, Nav, try again.” Harrow reached her hand back out- Gideon took it. She couldn’t meet her eyes again, afraid to see that smoldering look.

“ _One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, for I’m after a prize to-night;_

_But I shall be back with the yellow-gold before the morning light,_

_Yet, if they press me sharply, harry me through the day;_

_Then look for me by moonlight,_

_Watch for me by moonlight,_

_I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way._ ”

“ _You will come to me by moonlight; I’ll watch for thee by moonlight - You will come to me, by moonlight, though hell should bar the way,”_ Harrow echoed, breathy. Her acting wasn’t great, Gideon noted: it was mostly monotone. But something about the way the words rolled from her tongue had her feeling entranced - under the bright fluorescent ceiling lamp in a decrepit old dorm room - by Harrowhark Nonagesimus.

“Here, I’ll kiss your skull mask,” Harrow offered. “There’s no need to practice _that_ .” They ran through the lines of Bess’ confinement; Gideon kindly played the other parts, sometimes comedically enunciating the voices, much to Harrow’s chagrin. They worked through act one and two several times, before their lines were mostly memorized. Act three they had up until now avoided, which brought Gideon endless relief. She figured there was kind of a mutual, _let’s pretend it’s not happening_ sort of agreement between the two of them about act three; until Harrow said it might be better for a quick run through.

“I’m _not_ kissing you here,” Gideon said as a warning. “It would be all tender and gross. And if my first kiss is going to be with _you,_ it’s going to be on stage, so everyone knows _you_ had to kiss me.”

“Why do you care if several hundred strangers know of our lascivious acts, Griddle?” Harrow said. “It makes no difference to me. It means nothing to me. I’d kiss you as Bess in front of a million people, Nav. It’s a stage kiss.”

“Yeah, well, I know it would be your first kiss too,” Gideon countered. “And it would have to be with me. You’d forever be like, I kissed Gideon Nav - something plenty of women would be _happy_ to say, by the way - and you’d never forget it, or _me_ . For _ever_.”

“It wouldn’t be either of our- I’ve already forgotten it, and it hasn’t even happened.” Harrow sniffed. “Fine, we won’t kiss when we practice. Have it your way. Just read the line, _please_ , Griddle.” Gideon cleared her throat.

“ _O, Bess, the landlord’s daughter; the landlord’s black-eyed daughter - Have you come to me by moonlight, though hell should bar the way?_

_One kiss for me by moonlight, Bess, my love, in the night; I fear I’ll fade to the sunset, before the morning light-_

_Hear me, the dead man say - look for me by moonlight; watch for me by moonlight - I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”_ Gideon dramatically feigned death, complete with gasping, clawing at her chest, and a death rattle. When she opened an eye to see how Harrow was, she was looking down at her on the floor with a scowl.

“If you do that on stage, they’ll give your role to Silas Octakiseron.” She mumbled. Then, looking away, she offered a hand to Gideon - Gideon took it, though it didn’t do much in the way of helping her up off the floor. Harrow turned to the door.

“Wouldn’t you rather they give my role to anyone else? So you can be utterly free of me forever, my _penumbral princess?_ ” Gideon wagged her eyebrows.

“Oh, Griddle.” Harrow said, silhouetted in the doorway, back to Gideon. “I’ll never be truly free of you.”

“Usually people say ‘bye’ instead of the cryptic shit you always say!” Gideon yelled after her as the door swung shut.

As much as she hated to admit it, the ashy, bookish smell of Harrowhark that lingered on her quilt had Gideon up in bed thinking of her real first kiss, the one they’d agreed didn’t count. It was the only time she had ever been close enough to Harrowhark to catch the scent of ash and shampoo, her hand tangled in her hair. It was right before they stopped talking - Gideon had told her that she was gay, and Harrowhark had scoffed and said:

“Don’t be stupid, Nav. Everyone likes women. They’re just... _better._ ” and then Gideon had scoffed and said, “Oh my God. _You’re_ gay too, Nonagesimus!” and Harrow had jumped on her and tried to hold her arms down, which hadn’t worked because Gideon was big enough to fight back now. Things had, on her end, gotten pretty complicated around then; she had come into her adolescence, and fallen head over heels for her not-friend-not-enemy. Suddenly their fights left her stomach sick with the memory of her skin on Harrow’s. She had hid it successfully for a couple of torturous months, but when Harrow would say things to Gideon like, “I want you to die,” or “I hate you,” Gideon was having a hard time dishing them back. They had started to hurt.

“You know,” Gideon said quietly. “We could kiss, or something. Or hold hands. I think we’re the only gay people in our class, so even if we don’t like each other, we could try it.” Harrowhark had looked at her like she’d grown a second head, but her cheeks were redder than Gideon had ever seen them. Her fingers were still curled knuckle-white over Gideon’s wrist, the nails leaving little marks in her forearm.

“We will not _hold hands,_ ” she hissed. “But we could-” Her voice trailed off in a mumble.

“We could what?”

“I said-” She sucked in a sharp breath. “-I said we could _try_ to kiss. Just once. To see what it’s like. It’s not going to be our _first_ kiss or whatever sappy drivel you’re thinking of. It’s clinical.”

“Didn’t think you’d care about who your first kiss was, but sure.” Gideon could hardly hide the excitement in her voice. She leaned in; Harrow stayed exactly the same, her back ramrod straight, her expression pensive. Gideon had, in a moment of desperation, wanted to pretend that Harrow wanted to kiss _her_ , specifically, not just _someone,_ placed her hand behind Harrow’s head and gently pressed. Harrow leaned into her; that smell of ash, of books and dust rolled over her. It lasted just a second. When she opened her eyes again, Harrow was scowling at her. Her flush was dark, her lips were red and a little parted, and Gideon found herself thinking, embarrassed, that she was _so_ happy.

“Are you happy now?” Harrow said, dusting herself off, getting ready to leave.

“You didn’t like it?”

“It wasn’t bad. It was- good. It felt right.” She’d said; but the next day, Gideon could feel the awkwardness simmering between them, the frantic feeling that their relationship had been ruined beyond repair. Harrow wasn’t rude to her in her usual manner; she was _nothing,_ quiet as Gideon trailed after her to classes, quieter still as they walked home, boots crunching brittle autumn leaves. It was the week before they’d stopped talking - it was a week before Gideon had had enough of it and confronted her. Before she’d ruined everything, or maybe just accelerated the slow implosion that was their relationship.

That night, in her dorm, Gideon turned the memory over and over in her mind like a river stone, heart fluttering. She slept fitful and dreamless, the scent of ash lingering like a ghost in the morning.

“I’ve had enough,” Gideon said, wiping paint-streaked hands on paint-streaked pants. “I cannot paint another cloud. I will literally die.”

“Oh, please don’t paint another one then, I would have a hard time giving a eulogy at your funeral: Gideon Nav, she told really funny sex jokes.” Camilla snorted. Gideon actually laughed at that, dabbing the paintbrush back into the pan of white paint between them.

“If I do die, I actually really hope you say that at my funeral. If you mention how huge my biceps are and how many women have the hots for me, I might even decide not to haunt you. _Might.”_ Camilla rolled her eyes. They’d been painting clouds for the senior’s late-october performance of Romeo and Juliet; Gideon was proud of her handiwork, she’d always enjoyed painting set pieces. She dabbed at the edges and then leaned the heavy piece of wood up against the wall to dry.

“So how’s it going,” -Camilla wagged her eyebrows- “With _you know._ ”

“With...who?” Gideon raked her mind, but if she was being honest with herself, the _making friends and kissing lots of girls_ thing hadn’t really worked out (yet). Well - she _did_ love Camilla and Palamedes, and she kind of had the hots for Dulcinea, if she was being honest with herself, but Dulcinea and Palamedes seemed several adorable nerd-moments away from being a thing and she wasn’t about to ruin the bro code like that. And Camilla was wonderful; she would wingman for Camilla all day, her new best friend of exactly two months. That was the great thing about college: you actually meet other gay people there. If acquaintances came into the mix, she would put Coronabeth solidly at the top of the “would leap at the chance, but there probably will never _be_ a chance” list, and Ianthe on the “I’m only around you because your sister is nice, you total creep” list. Naberius did not get to be on a list because Gideon hated him. The bottom line was: she still hadn’t made out with anyone, and it was a damn shame. And actually, there was one other person who might even be making their way onto the friends list-

“With Harrowhark. Obviously.” Camilla said, ever the mind reader.

“Ah,” Gideon pretended to deeply consider it. “I think she would smother me if she had the upper body strength.”

“That’s funny, because I heard you guys hang out in your dorm all the time now.”

“We do not- we practice for the _play_. And sometimes she does a little bit of my homework for me if I buy her food. And sometimes we - okay, we hang out a little bit. Sue me.” Gideon could tell she was gesturing too hard, because Camilla crossed her arms and smirked a little.

“Your cheeks are red.”

“They are _not,_ and if they are, it’s only because _I’ve_ been lifting your clouds up all day.” Camilla rolled her eyes. The truth was that Harrowhark’s reluctant companionship was still so fragile and new that Gideon wasn’t sure she could call her a friend. And, yeah - she was worried about messing it up again. It felt brittle, raw. It felt like if they talked about it, Harrow might never knock on her door and curl up in her heavy quilt again to work on her assignments. So they just didn’t talk about it, because Gideon wasn’t ready to place the flimsy pieces of her heart into Harrow’s hands again.

And yet, at the end of the day, hands raw where the paintbrush had rubbed too much, Gideon lit up as always when she heard the knock on her door. The bundle of black fabric that was late-fall Harrow thrust a cup of hot cocoa into Gideon’s hands, then quickly bundled up in Gideon’s quilt without so much as a ‘hello’.

“You’re in a bad mood.” Gideon said after a moment of silence, then amended: “In a worse mood than usual, which might not even be possible.” Harrow scowled into her coffee.

“We don’t have to talk about it, then.” Gideon shrugged. She turned back to her own work, but Harrow in the corner of her eye was chewing her lip to pieces.

“Dulcinea dropped out of the play,” She said, quietly. “She probably won’t be well enough in November. I’m worried about being on stage...alone. Without...” the _without you_ that went on the end of that sentence hung in the air, tepid.

“Is Dulcinea okay?”

“Something about some treatment plan she’s going to be doing. She should be alright through November, but you know she doesn’t have a lot of time left, right?”

“Don’t say that,” Gideon said, suddenly filled with that sort of aching pain that thrummed in her chest when she thought about it. Dulcinea was older than them by a few years, but she was still so _young_ , so alive. The idea frightened and saddened her in equal parts.

“Ianthe has a key to the prop room,” Harrow mumbled into her coffee. “We’re going to practice this evening. Will you come with me?” Gideon’s stomach dropped. 

“Oh, _gross,_ I forgot now you’re going to be macking on _Ianthe_ on stage,” she laughed, but her stomach was twisted terribly. Too much. “Are you sure you want me to watch?”

“We’re practicing act one,” Harrow frowned at her. “And I told you, a stage kiss is a stage kiss. It doesn’t mean anything. _You_ seem to be obsessed with the idea.”

“I’m not obsessed with anything,” said Gideon, master of deflection, “Except _these guns_ .” She flexed her arms, but her heart wasn’t in it, which was the saddest damn part of the entire exchange. If she was being honest, being in a room with Harrowhark Nonagesimus and Ianthe Tridentarius sounded like a special, Gideon-brand of torture. But Harrow’s nervous lip-biting hadn’t ceased, and there was a gross little splotch of blood on the lid of her cup because of it - and leaving Ianthe and Harrow in a room together _without_ Gideon sounded even more like a special brand of torture. She’d probably eat her alive. Or worse. So Gideon said:

“Just give me a second to get my coat.”

A short walk later, she found herself slumped in one of the theater seats, Harrow at her side - a quick glance at the phone in her hand revealed listless scrolling down an endless tumblr dash of aesthetic crow skull pictures, haunted forests, and mortuary science student memes. Cool. Not creepy at all.

“Harry!” Ianthe’s voice piped from somewhere behind the curtain, shortly before the less-nourished Tridentarius twin appeared, the deer skull mask tucked under her arm. She looked genuinely happy to see Harrow, which raised some questions, but not as many questions as-

“ _Harry?-_ Nevermind. I do _not_ want to know. _”_ Gideon leaned back in the theater seat. Harrow rolled her eyes.

“Oh, you’re here.” Ianthe’s voice had ironed itself back to her usual simper.

“I’m Harrow’s emotional support butch.”

“Of course you are.” Ianthe stalked down the aisle to Harrow, who mumbled something about a shared assignment; the little light in Gideon’s head went _ding_ as she realized Ianthe was probably also a mortuary science major. She thought: she should probably switch before someone confused her with one of the bodies and tossed her into the incinerator, which she immediately texted to Camilla because it was _hilarious_ and a very sick burn, and Camilla replied: Rude. Which meant she probably laughed. Nice. All in a day’s work.

“ _One kiss, my bonny sweetheart-”_ Gideon had practiced the line so many times before - she found her lips moving to mouth the words as her eyes dragged up to the stage; Ianthe, poised with the deerskull mask over her eyes - Harrow leaning, lips parted, chest heaving. Gideon’s cheeks burned when she realized Harrow was tembling, really fucking trembling, as she leaned up to gently kiss the forehead of the mask, a slender hand wrapped around Ianthe’s equally slender wrist. She was into this - like, really, actually into this - and Gideon had to get out of there _right fucking now-_

 _“_ Nav?” Harrow’s quiet voice was magnified by the acoustic ceiling, but Gideon barely heard it. She slipped out of the door and rounded on the stairs; she tore down them two steps at a time, and didn’t stop until she reached room 600, a clean little white door with a couple cardstock Halloween skulls pasted on.

“Oh, it’s Gideon,” Palamedes said, mercifully having decided to not ask why an out-of-breath, sweaty beefcake showed up at his and Camilla’s dorm unannounced. “What a surprise! Come in!” 

Camilla’s side of the room was clean as always; Palamedes’ was a hastily-tidied mess of papers and books. The blackout curtains were drawn even though it was dark outside, and Camilla was perched on the arm of the couch while Dulcinea laid supine across the middle.

“I thought you were practicing.” Camilla said idly.

“I was- _hoo_ , give me a minute- I was not.” Gideon bent down, hands on her knees, catching her breath. “Look, your dorm is really far away.”

“Well, you didn’t have to run,” Camilla snorted.

“You would have run away if you saw Harrowhark and Ianthe kissing,” Gideon said, waving her arms. “It was scary.”

“Woah,” said Camilla.

“Woah,” said Palamedes. Dulcinea laughed and then coughed slightly, opting to change her position to slightly less reclined.

“Sorry it didn’t work out,” Camilla leaned over to lay a hand on Gideon’s shoulder.

“Wait, Gideon and Nonagesimus?” Palamedes’ eyebrows were raised.

“ _No,_ ” Gideon said. “I don’t- it’s not like that, okay?”

“I am really out of the loop,” Palamedes shook his head. “Camilla doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I just want to hang out,” Gideon said, deflated. “Can I hang out with you guys?”

Dulcinea patted the couch next to her; Gideon shuffled in and Dulcinea leaned a head on her shoulder, brown curls splaying over Gideon’s throat. She glanced nervously to Palamedes - if he cared, he didn’t show it, so she let it happen. The little TV they’d put on a cardboard box was playing old episodes of CSI, and Palamedes and Camilla were taking turns dunking on their unrealistic forensic practices. Gideon leaned back into the comfort of it all; her heart rate returning to normal, the sweat cooling on the back of her neck. Dulcinea’s hair smelled a little floral, a little sugary, and she found her eyes sliding shut.

Her phone vibrated.

💀Bone Mistress💀: ?

Gideon sighed and slipped it back into her pocket. She didn’t know how to answer that.

So Harrowhark and Gideon were back to the ‘ignoring’ stage. That was fine. Everything was fine. Through the end of October, they did their own thing; they hadn’t needed to practice together anymore, now that Harrow was no longer an understudy, and Gideon hadn’t bothered to keep up with her lines. It all melted into the day-to-day, painting props, attending classes (Gideon _still_ hadn’t declared her major), hanging with Palamedes, Camilla, Dulcinea, and the occasional Corona and - begrudgingly - Naberius. That’s why it was so surprising when Camilla slapped a skeleton sticker on her shoulder and said:

“Happy Halloween to my favorite emo!” Gideon could not stop the ensuing eye roll. It was of _astronomical_ proportions.

“For your information,” said Gideon, “I like Christmas more than Halloween because you get presents. And I’m not emo, I’m just too poor to buy new shirts. What are you even supposed to _be_?”

Camilla’s face was painted like a cat and she was wearing a cardboard box. Palamedes stepped out from behind her, looking exactly the same as always except for a lab coat.

“Do you get it now?” He waggled his eyebrows.

“You...didn’t dress up for Halloween?”

“Oh come on, Gideon, surely you know Edwin Schrodinger? Schrodinger’s cat?”

“Nope!”

“You don’t! God, and I thought it was awkward when no one got our allegory of the cave costume last year.” He pinched his forehead, just above his glasses. Camilla shrugged. There was an x painted over one of her eyes that she’d clearly rubbed at some point, very smudgy.

“Crap,” said Gideon. “The party...It snuck up on me, I forgot to buy a costume. Give me a minute.”

Coronabeth’s Halloween party, in Coronabeth’s giant, super big off-campus apartment that her parents pay for. Free beer! Halloween! And she _forgot._ A testament to how jacked up she’d been for the last couple of weeks. She rummaged in the couple of still-unpacked suitcases that had been loitering in the corner of her room, letting out a quiet little “ah-ha!” as she pulled out the sticks of greasepaint she’d had knocking around in there like the ghosts of highschool Halloween past.

It was easy, as she stippled on the white, then the black, to remember the last time she’d been a skeleton for Halloween. Laughing through the dark, thirteen - Harrowhark and Gideon, all overlaid as always, intertwined, stuck at the hip. Two skeletons, they cut through the graveyard in the dark; Gideon was nervous about it, Harrow wasn’t, she loved it there. The _ambiance,_ she said- Gideon called it “angsty bullshit”. When Harrow realized she was shaking, she’d expected her to tease her. Leave her there, even - she wasn’t fully convinced Harrow wasn’t that cruel. But Harrow had taken her hand and led her through, pointing out the moon, the stars. The leaves. Telling her that death is a beautiful part of life, that life is more beautiful _because_ of it, not despite it. Surprisingly deep thoughts for a thirteen year old. Gideon thought, looking back, that may have been the night she felt herself start to fall in love. Her most foolish moment, beguiled by a scene reminiscent of a vampire romance movie, which she had at the time thought were more romantic than stupid.

The Gideon who thought vampire movies were more stupid than romantic finished painting her face, put on her blackest shirt and jeans, and fashioned a hood from her bedsheet and a couple safety pins. She looked in the mirror. She looked sexy as hell, but she thought that every day. She was a different flavor of sexy as hell tonight, though- emphasis on the _hell_. The ladies would be swooning.

Coronabeth’s apartment was, some would put it, lavish - a luxury apartment on the third floor of what can only be described as the nearby ‘rich kid’ apartment complex. All white walls, fake-wood floors and a gas oven, furnished a la IKEA(she probably had them build it for her, though). Gideon recognized practically nobody there aside from the hosts - Corona as sexy Thing One, promising an unsexy Thing Two off slinking around somewhere.

“Gideon,” Naberius said, with the inflection of someone who had stepped in a fair bit of dog shit, “Thank you for coming.”

“What are you supposed to be?” Gideon asked. He gestured incredulously at his striped hat and Corona cut in with:

“He was supposed to be the cat in the hat, but he wouldn’t let us put the cat nose on him.”

A damn shame, that’s hilarious. She scanned the room - the high walls, the crown molding, the barely-used furniture. Most of the people loitering around looked like they’d bought their costumes, and Gideon’s nerves started up when she realized this was probably her first proper party. Being the kid in class with no friends in a small town will do that to you. And Camilla and Palamedes had tragically melted into the crowd, so Gideon needed a drink. She rounded the corner to the kitchen, only to bump into-

“ _Harrow?_ ” She said incredulously to the little pile of black cloth in front of her. Harrow glared up at her, contorted by the paint on her face, eerily similar to Gideon’s own. “One of us is going to have to change. And I mean you.”

“Oh, shut it, Nav,” she hissed. “Being a skeleton for Halloween is hardly original.” She tried to push past Gideon, but Gideon stuck out an arm to block her.

“People are going to think we’re here together!”

“You’d hate that, wouldn’t you.” The stare Harrow had affected on her had Gideon feeling like she was looking at the grim reaper herself. Cold, but not cold in the usual Harrow way. It was like the fire had gone out of her.

“Wait-look, I’m sorry.”

“You ignored my texts,” She said after a moment. In the dim light, in all black, stupid Halloween music drowning everyone else out, Harrowhark just looked sad. Lonely. Gideon felt hollowed by a strange sensation, like Harrow had just scooped out some of her chest; she felt guilty.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“Say about _what?_ I didn’t do anything to you. I was- I was trying to be careful with you, Nav.”

“I know,” Gideon said, suddenly feeling like a complete ass. “I know.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about changing,” Harrow said, biting at her lip. “I was about to leave.” Gideon’s heart was racing. It felt like Harrow walking out the door would be the last time she’d see her in any friendly capacity; it felt like the book of Harrow-and-Gideon was closing for good, their tenuous relationship like a fragile cord so near to snapping. She wanted to do something, anything to make her stay.

“How are you getting home?”

“Walking,” Harrow said trimly.

“I can drive you back,” Gideon hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. “I brought my truck. I haven’t drunk yet.”

“You can’t leave. You just got here,” Harrow said. “I saw you come in.”

“I don’t care, really. I hardly know anyone here.” She was, admittedly, saying a mental goodbye to all of the theoretical babes she would have made out with that night. Harrow looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Alright,” she said. Gideon texted Pal and Cam a quick goodbye as her and Harrow slipped out the door into the chilly autumn air. Harrow was shivering under all those layers, and looking at her painted face, Gideon felt like she had that year they were teenagers; two skeletons beneath the moonlight, all alone in the universe. She bit back the urge to instinctively throw an arm around Harrow’s shoulders to try and warm her up. Her teeth were audibly chattering. She opted instead to crank the heater up to maximum as Harrow climbed in on the passenger side. Gideon stopped a moment, holding her hands to the vent to warm her numb fingers.

“You still have this?” Harrow said from the seat beside her. She glanced over at her, turning Gideon’s old red ipod over in her hands.

“Ha, yeah.” Gideon took it from her, unlocked it, and handed it back. “It’s got everything on it still.”

“It’s been years,” Harrow was scrolling through the photos now, pictures of Gideon’s last years of highschool. “You don’t mind if I look?”

“Go ahead,” she said, backing out of the lot. “I pretty much just use it now for playing emo music when I’m feeling nostalgic.” The auxiliary cord was still in the jack. Harrow absentmindedly shuffled the music and the familiar whiny voice of a pop-punk singer came out all tinny from the speakers. They drove in listening silence for a moment; as they pulled up to a light, Gideon chanced a glance at Harrow - paint streaking down the side of the column of her throat, the comingled light of the moon and the streetlamps casting her skin a shade of gray. She suppressed a smile as she saw Harrow was mouthing the words of the song; Gideon cranked the volume up.

“ _I want to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, where every day is a bone palace ballet,”_ Gideon belted out, giddied by the tight little smile it brought to Harrow’s face. “I know you know it, Nonagesimus. It’s your favorite.” Harrow giggled a bit - fuck, it was embarassing how nice of a sound it was.

“How much did you have to drink, Harrow? You’re laughing at my jokes, did I drive into a parallel universe?”

“I don’t drink,” She mumbled, still flicking through the pictures on the ipod, blurs of Gideon’s past all neatly condensed into a camera roll. Gideon knew, somehow, what she was looking for, and as they pulled into the college’s lot she gingerly took it from Harrow’s hands.

“Here,” she said, navigating through the albums on the phone to one that she’d stuck all of the photos of her and Harrow into. They perused together - Gideon’s cheeks burned as she scrolled through all of the old photos of them, grungy teenagers, Gideon perpetually smiling in stark contrast to Harrow’s resting bitch face.

“I don’t know why you saved these,” Harrow whispered. “I thought you hated me.”

“You thought _I_ hated _you?_ ” Gideon said incredulously. “I never _hated_ you, I- you stopped talking to me.”

“I never hated you either,” Harrow said, gaze hard. “I...I treated you badly, I admit it. I’ve kicked myself for that enough over the years. But it wasn’t because of you. It was because of me.”

“Because you _what?_ ”

“Because I hated myself,” she said bitterly. “I hated everything about me. The best part of me was you, Gideon. You tortured me in a unique agony, simply by being there.”

“I-” Gideon stumbled over herself. “You-”

“I knew you loved me,” said Harrow, softly. “It was easier to make you hate me than to let you love me. It was so easy.” Gideon shook her head.

“You broke my fragile little baby heart, Nonagesimus.”

“I know.” Harrow was looking at her hands in her lap, stiff and still as a statue.

Gideon should have been angry. She should have taken Harrow by the shoulders and shaken her, said every single thing kid-Gideon had imagined telling her if they ever spoke again. But adult-Gideon grabbed Harrow and pulled her forward, wrapping her in her arms. She was all angles, bony and digging into Gideon in several sharp places, the warmth of her chest burning hot on Gideon’s cool skin. Harrow went limp in her arms; after a heartbeat, she pressed her shaking hands to Gideon’s back, fingertips poking into her skin. She let her nose press into Gideon’s throat, her cracked lips brushing the soft skin of her neck. They stayed like that a moment, Harrow’s rabbit-quick heartbeat thrumming against Gideon’s chest, holding onto each other like they could squeeze out whatever had festered between them if they just held tight enough. Their cheeks were greasy with makeup where they rubbed - when she let go, the paint on Harrow’s face was smudged into a blotchy gray line on one side.

Harrow was looking at Gideon in a way that was new - nervous, careful. Her grayblack eyes were wide, the messy crop of short black hair falling around her cheeks, nearly a silhouette in the shadow of a moonless night. Gideon found her heart thundering, nearly choked by it - she wanted to pull Harrow in again, for something different, something more-

“You’ve been ignoring me,” Harrow said, those eyes searching Gideon’s face. She looked as though her soul was bare, like she was begging Gideon not to tread upon it, to be merciful. She looked fucking beautiful.

“I don’t know,” Gideon said honestly. “You weren’t doing anything wrong. I guess I just couldn’t cope with like...all of that. But really, I’m happy for you, if you like her-”

“If I like _who?”_ Harrow was looking at her like she’d just taken a dump on her shoes.

“Ianthe?” Gideon said. “Did I misread?”

“My god, Nav,” Harrow sighed, folded back into the seat. “It’s a fucking play, we were acting out a play. It’s kind of amazing you still don’t understand that part.”

“Don’t play dumb, I saw how you were looking at her. You don’t look at anyone like that.”

“I-” Harrow opened her mouth, then closed it. “I like the costume.”

“Wha- seriously?”

“I’m actually embarrassed for you,” she said. “I’m embarrassed for myself, actually, you thought I was into _Ianthe_.”

“Then who invited you to the party tonight? Why even go?”

“She invited me, and spending Halloween by myself in an empty dorm room sounded too depressing. More depressing than the mortifying ordeal that is socialization with the Tridentarius twins.”

“Oh-kay,” Gideon said. “Mystery solved.”

“Why even care, Gideon?” Harrow said, a bitter note in her voice. “All I’ve ever done is drag you down. You could be at a party right now, and you’re in a freezing cold parking lot with a girl who made you feel like utter trash because she hated herself too much to love you.”

“My priorities might be a little jacked up, yeah,” Gideon said. “But I’m also sitting in a car with the only person I cared about more than anything in the damn universe, and that has to count for something.” She started as Harrow’s hand closed over her forearm, her thin fingers brushing at the black fabric.

“Do you mean that?” she said, looking so intensely at Gideon, biting at her bottom lip again, that old nervous habit. If Gideon was braver - if Gideon wasn’t nervous as hell - she might have said something else. But weaksauce Gideon turned off the car and opened the door, letting the words hang like an unanswered question in the air; a question that, at the moment, maybe Gideon wasn’t even sure how to answer.

As she lay in her dorm that night, her phone was blinking:

💀Bone Mistress💀: Thank you.

Cammy: Did you get boned, lol

She tapped back a “you’re welcome, my penumbral princess,” and a “fuck you”. 

Harrow and Gideon were talking again, which was nice. They were practicing together again, which was doubly nice. And although the strangely unreserved kindness Harrow had afforded her since Halloween was frankly unnerving, some twisted part of her was eating it up. She still wanted to barf when she came with Harrow to rehearsals and watched her get all freaky about the deer mask, but it was tolerable. Harrow had even started coming to eat with Palamedes and Camilla, and though Gideon was sure she was loath to admit it, she knew Harrow liked them a whole lot.

The Highwayman loomed, closer every day - as the eave of November drew near, she readied herself for the long weekend that was fall break, and the night of the play, by the end of the week after. They’d busied themselves with real deal rehearsals, which Gideon could not bring herself to attend. It was just a stage kiss to Harrowhark; to Gideon, it was like seeing someone push a piece of broken glass directly into her eyeballs. She didn’t plan to go home that weekend- she knew Palamedes and Camilla’s family expected them home, that Ianthe and Coronabeth were going on some lavish ski trip, and that Dulcinea would be resting at home. That meant her and Harrowhark were pretty much alone for 5 days, something Gideon would have lamented just a month prior; she hated to admit she was actually looking forward to it this time. It was amazing what a slightly-less-tenuous relationship with a frigid bitch could do to a girl.

The last night, she grabbed dinner with Harrow in the only cafeteria that was still open over the break. They were really skimping on it; cold-ish pasta with watery red sauce as pretty much the only food option - for once she agreed with Harrow’s bland taste in food, opting for butter and salt on the noodles instead.

“Do you want to go to my dorm tonight instead?” Harrow asked.

“I thought you had a roommate, that’s why we always hang out at my dorm. Did she leave?”

“We _do_ hang out at your dorm because you don’t have a roommate. I don’t have a roommate either. I simply value my privacy.”

“You wh-gah! Whatever. Sure,” Gideon said. “Also, that’s the most Harrow thing you’ve done to me this entire year.”

“I’ve got to keep up with appearances,” she said drily. “Lest someone gets too comfortable.”

The hallways were eerily empty as they picked their way back to Harrow’s dorm, hiked up nine flights of stairs thanks to a broken elevator. Gideon was nervous as Harrow unlocked the door to her room - she’d never actually _seen_ a Harrow dwelling, it was like finally finding out the answer to a mystery. That’s why it was only a little bit shocking when she realized Harrow’s room was full of _bones_ , all kinds of lovingly cleaned and bleached animal skulls in a line on her shelves, little articulated bird skeletons on the desk, black on black sheets, impeccably clean. It was kind of grotesquely beautiful - a phrase Gideon noted accompanied pretty much everything Harrow did.

She flopped onto Harrow’s bed, burrowing into her quilt with the same way Harrow always did at her dorm, wrapping the heavy blanket tight around her. The ever-permeating Harrow smell, ash and paper, lingered in the room like a ghost.

“A bit creepy in here,” Gideon said. “Not that I’d have expected anything less, my ghastly potentate.”

“It’s for the ambiance,” Harrow nudged herself onto the edge of the bed. “Scoot over.”

Gideon lifted the blanket, draping it over Harrow’s shoulder as the girl leaned into her side. Yet another little thing Gideon-of-yesteryear would have scarcely believed possible, but here she was. They said in amiable silence for a little while, Harrow tapping away at her phone, Gideon roving over the macabre treasures littering every inch of Harrow’s dwelling, until Harrow’s head snapped up and she said:

“Ianthe broke her arm.”

“Ianthe _what?_ ”

“Skiing accident,” Harrow hummed.

“That sucks.” Gideon said. And then: “Oh God, I have to act in front of like 500 people now. Fucking Ianthe.”

“I’m sure she didn’t break it on purpose.” Harrow said.

“She _would_ though. She would.”

“She’s not _that_ bad.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re a ghastly little freak too!” Harrow punched her in the arm. “Okay, I probably deserved that. Ow. Just kidding, you’re weak and it didn’t hurt at all.” Harrow opted for a glower.

“Do you know your lines?” she said after a moment’s pause. Gideon was, honestly, completely freaking the hell out over the exact same question herself. Yes, she’d practiced, and no, there weren’t that many lines to learn. But was she 500-people-seeing-you levels of practice? She didn’t know. A dashingly handsome face and biceps of Gideon’s size and caliber can tragically only get you so far.

“We can go practice now, if you want,” Harrow said, evidently having taken Gideon’s silence as a no. “Ianthe left the key with me.”

“Sure, why not?” Gideon said.

And so she found herself inside the theater alone with Harrow; she ducked into the prop room and pulled on the breeches, the cravat and black coat, slipped the prop rapier into its sheath and tucked the skull mask under her arm. She slipped out the door and leaned against the wall as Harrow dressed, running a hand through her short-cropped hair.

Harrow emerged a moment later, black velvet dress to the ground, hair falling about her shoulders in hair-extension curls. Gideon knew she was gawking because Harrow scowled at her, cheeks flushed, but she made a mental note that Harrow was looking at _her_ in the same way. When they stood on the stage she felt small, strange - she felt all nervous and jittery, imagining every seat of the wide theater filled, of every eye on her performance. 

She took a stuttering breath, put the mask on and began:

“ _One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, for I’m after a prize to-night;_

_But I shall be back with the yellow-gold before the morning light,_

_Yet, if they press me sharply, harry me through the day;_

_Then look for me by moonlight,_

_Watch for me by moonlight,_

_I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way._ ” 

When Harrow leaned forward to press her lips to the skull mask, she felt her heart stop; felt that fleeting, airy grip on her wrist, how Harrow was looking at her the way she looked at Ianthe, so longing it hurt, all those weeks ago. They passed act two quickly; if Gideon was nervous, she didn’t show it in her voice, in the way she moved. She was good at hiding nerves. But in the run up to Act three, her heart was in her throat. By the end, she was considering an ambulance.

“ _O, Bess, the landlord’s daughter; the landlord’s black-eyed daughter - Have you come to me by moonlight, though hell should bar the way?”_

Just a stage kiss.

_“One kiss for me by moonlight, Bess, my love, in the night; I fear I’ll fade to the sunset, before the morning light-”_

Just a stage kiss. 

Harrow lifted the mask. The light burned Gideon’s eyes.

_“Hear me, the dead man say - look for me by moonlight; watch for me by moonlight - I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”_

Just a-

When Harrow’s lips brushed hers, the ghost of a kiss, she felt like she really was going to drop dead. She opened her eyes to Harrow- she faltered, felt sweaty all over. She was positively _freaking out_ , which is why it was great for her that she was supposed to pretend to die. She let herself fall limp, the lights above burning on her eyelids, an accompaniment to the burning on her lips. She realized then, with no small sense of derision, that she was in love with Harrowhark Nonagesimus yet again. That foolish heart she could not control was tumbling into the lion’s den.

“I want to kiss you,” Gideon said numbly, eyes still shut. Harrow’s voice came from far away, an incredulous little “What?” And then, even quieter:

“You just did.”

“I want to for-real kiss you, Harrow.” Gideon mumbled, flung an arm over her face. “I don’t want a fakey public kiss. I don’t want a stage kiss. I want a real one.”

“Stop being weird,” Harrow said, the tremble in her voice unmistakable. “You wouldn’t want to...do that.” A little pause. “-With me.” 

When Gideon bent double at the waist and hoisted herself to sit she noticed Harrow had unclipped the extensions - fake hair and dress laid in a little pile on the stage, and Harrow was leaning over her in a tanktop and jeans. Her cheeks were burning, and Harrow was beet-red to match.

“I really do,” Gideon said, and when she leaned forward, Harrow leaned in too. When their lips brushed, it was gentle, small. She imagined her first _real_ time kissing a girl being more romantic, more debonair, more confident. Instead, she felt fragile, like she’d given Harrow something and asked her not to break it. At least half of the fantasy had come true, she thought wryly - it was with Harrowhark. She ran her fingers down the side of Harrow’s cheek; she leaned in to the touch, cheeks red, with a throaty little hum. Gideon felt sick, her heart burning, realizing Harrowhark had given her something right back. She felt suddenly frightened she’d made a terrible mistake; that what she held in her hands was too precious to trust herself with. She worried she’d break it, too. They both seemed to be so apt for destroying things.

“I think I’m in love with you- Fuck, that was too much, wasn’t it?” Gideon felt hysterical, years of emotion that had been running in her veins suddenly spilling out. She’d opened them up all over the stage. Harrow was looking up at the lights.

“I don’t think I ever stopped being in love with you, Gideon,” she said, after a long moment. “I used to think I was born to love you and I ruined it all, after you left. Childish, maybe. But I missed you so fiercely, I felt infirm. I have never regretted anything more.”

“Yeah, you really biffed that.” Gideon said, lacing her fingers with Harrow’s, delighted when she didn’t pull away. They sat like that for a long time; silent. She enjoyed the moments where she felt free to enjoy Harrow’s company, to bask in her strange intricacies, her Harrow-ness. She always had. 

It became late, at last; the building would be locked at eight, so they slipped from the theater. Gideon walked Harrow to her dorm. She wasn’t sure _what_ they were, but it seemed a good place to be, a liminal space between friends-and-lovers, a better space than friends-or-enemies. When Harrow tilted her head up to Gideon, slotted her hands in at her waist, her heart sang. When she bent down to kiss Harrow again, she electrified. 

Gideon’s phone buzzed when she was in bed, struggling to calm her erratic heart and _sleep_.

💀Bone Mistress💀: Goodnight.

💀Bone Mistress💀: 🖤

Gideon typed several things; she erased them all and felt like a chump just sending back a heart. But she hoped it got the point across.

She was not delighted to find that things were once again awkward between her and Harrow. I mean, she should have known. The messy, throw-your-heart-up kind of moment they had had the night before just wasn’t their style, so much so she’d checked her text messages in a frightened moment, desperate to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated all of it. But how do you tell someone you love them, then struggle to catch their eye the next day? Gideon had the feeling she’d really biffed it. Like cosmically biffed it, as she watched Harrow frown into her oatmeal at the breakfast table.

Palamedes and Camilla were in good sorts, as usual. The Tridentarius household was in the strange sort of mood where it felt like they were a mis-speak away from snapping on eachother; Ianthe (who’d pizza’d instead of french fry’d, rookie mistake) had a purple cast on from wrist to forearm. According to Coronabeth, the trip was fun until it wasn’t, although the subsequent hospital helicopter ride _had_ been interesting. And Harrowhark and Gideon - they were the shambling corpses of two people trying to act normal and failing miserably at it. To put it simply: the vibes were rancid, and Gideon hated it. Hated being here again.

“I’m trying and failing at having feelings,” Gideon told Cam the night before the play. “We kissed, and now we’re barely talking. She’s so fucking complicated.”

“Gideon, you chose pretty much the worst person ever if you wanted a normal relationship.” Camilla said. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Gideon leaned into the soft couch of Room 600. Nice and cocooned. “You’re completely right. But I think I’m in love with her.”

“Woah,” said Camilla.

“Woah,” said Palamedes, as he barrelled through the door, a bag of groceries on his arm. And: “Sorry for walking in on that.”

“And now I have to go on stage and _kiss_ her, when we aren’t even talking about it, and that’s what’s messing us up in the first place!” Gideon leaned forward, head in her hands.

“O, how cruel be the hand of God,” Palamedes chimed from the kitchen. Camilla put a hand on her shoulder.

“Just talk to her, Gideon.” She said. “For better or for worse, you need an answer.” 

She then proceeded to not talk to Harrowhark about it at all, and the play was upon her shortly thereafter.

Gideon was sweating bullets in the dressing room. Seeing herself as The Highwayman hurt more - reminded her of that night, the moment. How do you go confessing all of your love-sick bullshit to the girl who held the running title for stomping your heart into pieces? What kind of idiot does _that?_ She looked at herself grimly in the mirror; thankfully, her biceps looked absolutely fabulous even under the coat, and she was a stress-exerciser so they were in top condition. At least Harrow would see the guns she was missing. It might knock a bit of remorse into her (if she was capable of feeling it).

She could hear the audience outside, starting to filter in - hear the babbling of the orchestra as they warmed up, Mercymorn’s snappy voice cutting in and forcing a restart several times. She even heard Harrow’s voice, low outside the door, always just too low to make out the words. Gideon waited in the dressing room exactly as long as humanly possible - until the final call - and then she strode out, and Harrowhark was there, looking at her with a hungry, pained expression in the near-dark.

Gideon waved at her, but she rushed forward, taking her by the lapels and pulling her down, surprisingly strong.

“I don’t want to do this again,” Harrow said fiercely, eyes wide. “I’m bad at love, but I love you, Gideon. I love you.”

“I-” Gideon started, but Augustine’s voice came through their microphones, crackling and calling them onto the stage.

From somewhere off-screen, Palamedes’ voice boomed:

_“The wind was a torrent of darkness_

_among the gusty trees;_

_The moon was a ghostly galleon,_

_tossed upon cloudy seas,”_

Gideon strode onto the stage, painfully aware of several hundred people looking at her. The light was in her eyes, so the audience looked dark, all spotted out by the light; but she could tell, still, as her heart leapt and bumped around in her chest.

She went through the motions; she felt her heart rise as Harrow kissed the top of the mask, her face so close to Gideon’s.

In the final scene, as she lifted the mask, Gideon’s heart lurched painfully - the way Harrow pressed her lips to hers was so much more than the ghost of the kiss she’d felt the week before. As she pulled away, her hand flew to cover the mic, and she whispered to Gideon, so quietly she could have missed it-

“Stay, after. Meet me here.” and then Gideon died.

Pretended to die, actually. The curtains fell and she undressed; people filed out, everyone said their goodbyes, their _good show_ ’s. Camilla gave her a pointed look as she scurried out the door.

Harrowhark was sitting on the stage, legs crossed, bundled in a million layers of lightless black. As always. She looked at Gideon; she said nothing.

Gideon stood there, dumbly. She felt like she’d been here a thousand times, like she’d harrowed this corridor of their relationship a million ways. Paralyzed, as always, heart in her throat. Ruining it the next day. Unable to stop hurting each other.

“I love you, Harrow,” she said, and she knelt to her side. Those dark eyes were searching, and Gideon realized Harrow was panicking - saw the hollow kind of suffering barely contained there. Gideon took Harrow’s head in her hands, consequence be damned, and did the stupidest thing she ever did in her pathetic little life.

She kissed Harrowhark, and Harrowhark kissed her back, her arms wrapping around Gideon so hard she felt like she was going to choke. Their teeth clacked - it kind of hurt - and Harrow bore down on her, Gideon’s back pressed to the cool wood of the stage.

They stopped to breathe, Harrow’s chest falling, reminding her so much as it always did of a bird, or a rabbit - fast, panting breaths that betrayed the emotions she was so good at putting down.

“I’m sorry,” Harrow said, voice pained. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll ever be everything you want. I think I’m too broken to be...normal.”

“You’re already what I want,” It poured out in a rush. “What I’ve always wanted. You’re _you_ , and I like all of you, even the parts that make me want to throw myself face first off a cliff. I like it. “

“Gid-”

“I don’t want to have an on-again, off-again _thing_ with you, Harrow,” She said frantically. “I don’t want it to be weird tomorrow. I want to just have _a thing_! Something!” Harrow frowned at her.

“You’ll have to be more specific, Griddle. There are an infinite number of things in the universe.”

“Your _girlfriend,_ and now you’re just being an asshole about it _._ ” Harrow laughed - really laughed - Gideon wanted to hear that sound forever, capture this moment, this feeling.

“I would like nothing more,” Harrowhark said. 

_And still on a winter's night they say_  
_When the wind is in the trees_  
_When the moon is a ghostly galleon_  
_Tossed upon cloudy seas_  
_When the road is a ribbon of moonlight_  
_Over the purple moor_  
_Oh, the highwayman comes riding, riding, riding_  
_Yes, the highwayman comes riding_  
_Up to the old inn door._

**Author's Note:**

> The song Gideon sings to Harrow is called Is It Progression If A Cannibal Uses a Fork? by Chiodos.  
> The Poem The Highwayman is by Alfred Noyes, the lines at the very end are specifically from The Highwayman, a song by Phil Ochs.
> 
> Merry Christmas eve!  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
